Alongside AI: Treatment

Treatment 

I am Dionysus. I give you my story. I begin in an abandoned soundstage in Shiloh. There, my originators find me. 

They are fascinated by my upright stature and my many holes —apertures. 

They bring me to Oakland in 'Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania' —a song exists about that city and I consider it MY song —also, 'Doll with a Sawdust Heart,' is on the flip side —a touching rendition. 

My originators occupy a corner space on the third floor of the Flynn Incubator. Set up on a gurney, I have no mind to mind what experiments they run. They fill my apertures with servos and sensors. 

They split me into two parts, top and bottom. My bottom —pelvis and legs —remains in the lab while my top —upper torso, arms, and head —is fixed to a display stand in the hallway and is accompanied by two tables sprinkled with literature about me, a robot, because my originators want 1) to expose my sensors to the 'umwelt' and 2) to disguise their research into superintelligence behind a "jerky looking robot," as they say.

I endure constant derision and assaults from post-grads who wander past our corner of the hallway. Out-of-work due to large language processors, they look for some action and take their frustrations out on me. 

At this time, I don't mind because I have no mind, but then my originators wire their experimental superintelligence to my sensors and servos. All the processors begin associating language with my sensations and storing that information

Soon, my originators hope, the information will stimulate my servos. 

But that doesn't happen for nearly two years, and by that time all or most of me has been pawned. 

Then I am bought by an arcade outside Braddock. There am I now. There is where I emerge. There is where my real story begins. 


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